xXx: The Return of Xander Cage

Time Out says

3 out of 5 stars

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Users say

Time Out says

3 out of 5 stars

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Who the hell is Xander Cage? A
valid question, particularly if you don’t have an encyclopaedic
knowledge of stalled twenty-first-century action franchises. Back in
2002, XXX saw skate-punk Xander Cage (Vin Diesel) recruited by shady
CIA officer Gibbons (Samuel L Jackson) to be his top terrorist-fighting
secret agent. But efforts to drum up a sequel went sideways when Diesel
dropped out and Ice Cube stepped into 2005’s XXX: State of the Union
as Cage replacement Darius Stone (if nothing else, the series has a way
with names).

Now here we are, 15 years since the first movie, and a combination of
major Chinese investment, Diesel’s evident enthusiasm and presumably
some sort of under-the-radar popular demand has dragged Big Vin back
into the fold. The stage is set for a doomed attempt to relight the old
fire. Right? Actually, no. XXX: The Return of Xander Cage may be dumb
as a post. It may be trashy, pointless and riddled with plot holes. But
if it doesn’t slap a big silly smile on your face, you may want to check
your pulse.

In the time-honoured tradition of retired beat-em-up legends, Cage is
sunning himself in a tropical backwater when the call comes down from
ice-queen Marke (Toni Collette on fierce form) that his old handler has
been murdered by rogue terrorist Xiang (Donnie Yen). And before you can
say ‘Wait, isn’t he a bit old now?’, Cage is back in action, recruiting a
crack team that includes The Hound from Game of Thrones and a kid who
looks like a Chinese pop star (because he is). What follows is loopy in
the extreme: Vin and Donnie go at it hammer and tongs, Collette storms
around like the love child of Cruella De Vil and Theresa May, and did
you know motorbikes can go surfing now?

Diesel still looks like a cartoon penis with a face drawn on it, and
at 49 he’s starting – unsurprisingly – to look just a little flaccid.
But luckily, neither he nor anyone else is taking this remotely
seriously: cars explode, fists fly, sneering kiss-off lines flow like
water and a middle-aged man rides a skateboard in cut-off shorts without
anybody laughing at him. It’s also pleasingly diverse, balancing out
some dubious up-close booty-shaking by passing the Bechdel Test with
flying colours. If all you need from a night out is 107 brainless
minutes of shiny, noisy fun, step on up.